Knowing Better
by bemj11
Summary: You don't become romantically attracted to a woman when you're working on a case, and especially not when she's a murder suspect. Bradstreet knows that, but it doesn't help anything. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

A young woman with brown hair and hazel eyes answered the door. She was slender, and tan as well, I noted. The niece, then. She had allegedly spent a number of years running wild over in the States before her father had brought her back home.

I smiled. "Inspector Bradstreet." I introduced myself. She didn't return the smile, but then, why would she? I was here on business.

The girl's uncle had been murdered.

"Come in." She said, he voice low, a slight American accent still coloring her speech in spite of the fact that she had spent the last few years back in London. "May I take your coat and hat?" She asked as she let me in.

"Thank you." I said as I handed them over. She took them and hung them up, then led me through the house to the room where her uncle had been found dead.

Two men stood in the hall, outside the closed door, speaking quietly. When the young woman did not announce me, I cleared my throat and stepped forward. "Inspector Bradstreet." I introduced myself once more. "Mr. Southhall?" I guessed, turning to the older of the two men.

"Yes. Thank you for coming, Inspector." Southhall replied, reaching forward to shake my hand. "I cannot say it is a pleasure to meet you."

"Of course not, given the circumstances of our meeting." I agreed with what was not enough of a laugh to be considered inappropriate.

"You've met my daughter, Melissa." Southhall nodded towards the young woman. "This," he turned to his companion, "is Gregory Watson. He is a guest here; he has been with us for a few weeks now."

"I know a Watson." I told the man as he shook my hand. "A doctor. John Watson."

"No relation, I'm afraid." Watson replied with an easy shrug. "He's the one that publishes those stories though, isn't he?"

"The detective stories, yes." I agreed, then turned my attention back to the reason I had come. "The murdered man?" I reminded them gently.

"My brother." Southhall explained. "He was found in his room this morning, dead." He gestured towards the closed door. "No one has been in since then."

"Good." I said, opening the door myself; neither Southhall nor Watson seemed interested in doing so.

The victim was lying face down on the floor in the middle of the room. The carpet was stained with blood near the upper part of the man's body.

I examined the room. There was no sign of a forced entry, and no sign of a struggle. The murderer was likely someone in the household then, and they had caught the man completely by surprise.

I knelt by the body and turned it over. The man's throat had been cut; he had died quickly. There were no other signs of violence on his person.

I looked around the room again. The murder weapon was nowhere to be found. Whoever had killed Southhall's brother had taken it with them. Of course, the knife could easily have been taken from the kitchen, used to kill the man, then cleaned and returned to the kitchen afterward.

I turned to see both the Southhalls and Watson standing in the doorway, watching. Southhall looked pale and understandably upset; Watson and Southhall's daughter, however, seemed unbothered by the fact that they were standing no too far from a corpse.

I led the three away from the room, and turned to the Constable who had by now made it here and was waiting in the hall for orders.

"They can go ahead and move the body out when they arrive, Smith." I told him.

"Very good, sir." Smith replied, and stepped into the room to keep an eye on things.

I returned my attention to Southhall, who had retreated with his daughter and his guest to the sitting room. I followed them, and waited for the man to regain his composure.

"When was the last time you saw your brother alive, Mr. Southhall?" I asked, keeping my tone calm and relaxed.

"Last night." Southhall replied, pouring himself a drink. "He went up to bed around ten-thirty."

"And when was he found dead?" I asked, when it became apparent the man was not going to continue without prompting.

"He didn't come down for breakfast." Southhall explained. "We are all rather early risers here, and my brother was especially so. He was also a very punctual man; for him to be late for anything, even breakfast, was unheard of. I sent Melissa up to check on him. She returned a few minutes later, alone, and informed us that my brother was dead. I did not want to believe it, so of course I went up myself, and Gregory joined me. When we saw it was true, that he was dead, I closed the door and sent for Scotland Yard."

I nodded as he finished. "Who was here last night, Mr. Southhall? In the house?"

Southhall thought for a moment. "The three of us, of course." He said slowly. "The housekeeper was as well, and the cook. They both stay with us; have since we hired them upon our return to London four years ago."

"I'd like to speak with them, if you don't mind." I said.

"Certainly." Southhall agreed. "Miss Jacobs, our cook, will be in the kitchen, of course. Melissa will show you the way."

The woman was silent as she led me from the sitting room and back towards the kitchen.

She had not seemed all that upset at the sight of the dead man upstairs, even if she had been the one to find him this morning. The fact that instead of screaming when she had found her uncle dead she had calmly gone downstairs and informed her father and his guest of the news was odd as well.

The thought occurred to me that it was possible she had killed him herself when she had gone upstairs to allegedly check on him.

But why? It was no more than idle speculation for now. If nothing else, there was no motive.

We reached the stiflingly hot kitchen. Miss Southhall wordlessly gestured for the cook to come over.

"Miss Jacobs?" I asked as the thin, older woman wiped her hands on her apron and came to join us. Miss Southhall exchanged a glance with the cook, then took over the vegetables the cook had been chopping.

"Yes, sir?" The woman acknowledged, a trifle nervously.

"I am Inspector Bradstreet. Scotland Yard." I told her. "I am here in regards to the death of Mr. Adam Southhall. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"

"What would you like to know, Inspector?" The woman asked, looking me over critically.

"You and the housekeeper both stay here, at the house?" I asked.

"Yes, sir." The cook answered with a nod. "We have since Mr. Southhall and his daughter returned from the States. We worked for the Missus, before she died and he left London with his daughter. I think Mr. Southhall wanted to have a woman's touch in the girl's life, after those wild years oversea."

Bent over the vegetables, the woman in question smiled tolerantly but did not comment on the speculation. She did not even seem to mind that she was being talked about while still in the room.

"Would you consider yourselves a part of the family, then?" I asked.

Miss Jacobs laughed. "I wouldn't go quite that far, but we are certainly treated well here, and rather fond of the young Miss. Her mother was good to us as well." She added.

"And the brother?" I asked. "Adam Southhall?"

"He was a good man." Miss Jacobs assured me. "He kept to himself a lot, but I can't think of anyone who would want to do him harm."

"He got along well with the rest of the family, then?"

"Adam Southhall and his brother were close." Miss Jacobs said solemnly. "Melissa was rather attached to him as well."

"Neither seemed particularly overwrought, if you'll forgive my saying so." I lowered my voice as I spoke, but Miss Southhall looked my way anyway. Still, she said nothing in defense of either her father or herself.

Miss Jacobs shrugged. "The Southhalls never were the type to put their emotions up on display for strangers to see. You're here, and Mr. Watson isn't family yet."

My ears pricked up at that last word. "Yet?" I echoed.

"He's set on marrying Melissa." The old cook replied. She looked surprised that I didn't already know. "And Mr. Southhall approves of the idea." She continued. "That's why the gentleman is here."

Perhaps it was my imagination, but for a second it seemed as if Miss Southhall, a frown on her face, might speak up. Then she went back to working, and the frown had disappeared as if it had never been there.

"And what did her uncle think of the proposed marriage?" I asked, fishing for more information. I was looking for anything that might make this case a little clearer.

"He said it would be a wise match." Miss Jacobs replied.

"And Miss Southhall? Did she seemed pleased with the idea?" I was gambling on the fact that the lady in question had not involved herself so far and that the cook would answer honestly in spite of the former's presence.

I was correct. The cook shook her head. "She told her father she would not marry him. I believe she and her uncle discussed the matter often."

"Discussed? Argued?" I suggested. Miss Jacobs shook her head once more. "They did not agree, but I would not go so far as to say they argued with each other."

I nodded. Then a thought occurred to me. "Were there any knives missing from the kitchen this morning?"

The woman again shook her head. "Not as I noticed, Inspector."

"And if one had been missing…" I trailed off.

"I most certainly would have noticed." The cook finished firmly.

"Thank you for your time." I smiled as I thanked the woman. Then I turned to Miss Southhall. "I would like to speak with the housekeeper now, if you don't mind."

Miss Southhall nodded and led the way out of the kitchen.

I learned nothing new from Miss Larson, the housekeeper. So far I didn't have much to go on. Adam Southhall had been murdered, his throat cut. It had likely been someone who was a member of the household, though the only person who had been at odds with the man was young Miss Southhall, and no one was of the belief that their disagreement had been anything serious. The knife was still missing, and had not been taken from the kitchen.

It was of course possible that the whole household was involved and covering for the actual murderer, but that theory was even less likely than the idea that the niece had done it.

It was a pretty little problem, and I was nowhere near solving it.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	2. Chapter 2

"Did you uncover anything else when you searched the rest of the house?" Southhall inquired over dinner.

I had been invited to stay, for whatever reason, and had accepted in the hopes that it might give me some idea of who in the house might have had a reason to kill the deceased man. It didn't hurt, either, that Miss Jacob's cooking was easily far better than my own.

I shook my head. "No." I admitted ruefully. "Nothing. Covering the grounds was a waste of time as well."

Gregory Watson grinned. "Perhaps you should send for your Sherlock Holmes. Isn't that usually what the Yard does when it's in over its head?"

I laughed along with him, though both of the Southhalls looked slightly uncomfortable. "Now you can't believe everything you read, Mr. Watson." I joked. "Take your namesake, for example. Doctor Watson. What do you think of the man, from reading his stories?"

Watson hesitated, so I offered "Simple, perhaps?"

"Easily manipulated by Holmes." Mr. Watson replied, encouraged. "A bit slow to catch on."

I laughed. "And yet if you met the man you would hardly believe he was the person narrating his stories. Doctor Watson is a remarkably intelligent individual. He would have to be, if you think about it, to write as well as he does."

I'll concede that." Mr. Watson replied. "But next I suppose you're going to tell me that Scotland Yard isn't as bad as his stories make them out to be."

I shrugged. "The problem lies in the fact that we're being compared to Holmes. Of course we're going to look like idiots. The man is a genius. Most people look dim witted when put next to him. Besides," I added brightly, "we do the same thing Doctor Watson does in his stories."

"What's that?" Mr. Watson asked, curious.

"We make Holmes look good." I said with a smile. "Simple as that." The conversation drifted on as I turned my attention to my meal, and I stayed out of it from there, content to watch and listen.

Miss Southhall said nothing. She ate quietly, and listened as the two men spoke, offering no opinion on anything discussed until the topic turned to the proposed marriage between Mr. Watson and herself.

The she set down her fork and looked her father directly in the eye. "I have already told you I will not marry him." She said, her voice gentle but firm. It was the first I had heard her speak since she had greeted me at the door.

The two men stared at her in silence as she picked her fork up again and resumed eating as calmly as if she hadn't just essentially defied her father in the presence of her future husband and an Inspector of Scotland Yard, which might as well have been in front of a room full of people.

Mr. Watson reddened, but Southhall didn't bat an eye. "Don't talk nonsense, girl. Gregory is a good man." Miss Southhall did not disagree, but neither did she seem to change her mind.

The rest of the meal was tense and quiet. Afterward, Miss Southhall escorted me to the door.

To my surprise, she stepped out onto the porch with me and closed the door behind her. "Do you know who killed my uncle?" She asked, her eyes expectant.

I sighed as I shook my head. "Not yet." I said apologetically.

"My uncle approved of the marriage, but if it had come down to it, he would have sided with me on the matter." She said, her voice low. "He would not have had me marry against my wishes, Inspector." She hesitated for only a second. "My father knew this. Mr. Watson did as well."

I stared at the young woman. "Are you suggesting-?" I didn't finish my question, and she did not answer. Instead she opened the door and stepped back inside, closing the door behind her.

I took a cab back to the Yard, puzzling over the murder the whole ride back.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	3. Chapter 3

Upon reaching the Yard, I headed back to my office, being careful to duck out of the way of the hurried forms of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson as they passed, an only slightly bothered Inspector Lestrade in tow. Maybe it was just my imagination, but it seemed that Holmes called for Lestrade more than he did anyone else at the Yard, and that Lestrade did not terribly mind.

I noted, as I passed Gregson's office, that the man had not gotten as caught up on his paperwork as he had hoped. I also made a note to stop in with a mug of tea on my way out; Gregson would likely be here late into the night, and I could tell by his expression that he was rapidly reaching the end of his tether. The man loathed paperwork with a passion. Unfortunately, there was more of it involved in our line of work than one might think.

Jones was also snarling over paperwork, but in his case that meant he was having some sort of domestic problems that his colleagues had best keep their noses out of. The man was as closed about his personal life as Lestrade was, even if he was not quite as skilled as Lestrade at keeping up the professional façade when all was not well at home.

Hopkins dragged in as I reached my office door, looking as if he had come off the worst in some sort of brawl. "Rough day?" I asked as he opened his own office door to stare forlornly at his own mountain of paperwork.

"Got called down to the docks." He answered mournfully. "How is it that Lestrade is suddenly the best at keeping his paperwork done?" He wanted to know. "He used to be the slowest."

"He doesn't keep it done." I told the lad. "He just keeps it neat. He's further behind than the rest of us."

"Still…" Hopkins sighed. "If I could keep my office half that neat I'd be happier. At least then it would look like there's less of it. Are you working late?"

"Everyone else is." I said, though I had planned on ignoring my own paperwork in favor of seeing what else I could learn about the family of the murdered man. "We can call it a party."

"A party." Hopkins snorted. "If it were a party, there would be food."

"Lestrade's out." I suggested. "I saw something that looked like food in his office."

"His wife sent him lunch." Hopkins said absently. "He's been here all day too." Then he realized what I was suggesting. "You want to steal Lestrade's lunch." He said flatly.

I shrugged. "He went out with Holmes. It's not like he'll be back anytime soon." Hopkins was still skeptical, so I continued. "Besides, you know how much it cheers Gregson up to steal Lestrade's food, and you know how much he hates paperwork. It's for the good of the Yard, Hopkins."

Hopkins' shoulders slumped. He had given in. "Are you sure Lestrade won't be back?"

"Positive." I lied. It didn't matter; Hopkins had already committed to it.

We stopped by Gregson's office on the way to Lestrade's. "We're throwing a party, and refreshments are in Lestrade's office. Want to come?"

Gregson considered it. "Is Jones invited?" He wanted to know.

"Jones wouldn't come anyway." I reminded him.

The three of us continued down the hall. We stopped outside of Lestrade's office.

The door was closed. It was never locked. Most people knew better than to bother anything left in that office. There were a few Constables foolish enough to occasionally mess up his note board, but even they knew not to touch anything else. Gregson and I were the only ones stupid enough to remove food from the man's office. Hopkins didn't count; he was quaking in his shoes and only here because he needed to do something to release the tension caused by whatever nightmarish day he had suffered.

Hopkins stood watch at the door while Gregson and I cautiously made our way in. Stealing Lestrade's lunch was all well and good, and he probably wouldn't do more than mention the disappearance in passing, but as far as the rest of the office was concerned if we left one thing out of place Lestrade would kill us.

Actually, if all he did was kill us we would be lucky.

Fortunately the floor was clear, as it always was. You couldn't walk through Gregson's office on a good day, at least, nobody but Lestrade and Gregson himself could manage such a feat, and most of us Inspectors had something or other lying about that would trip up anyone blundering about in the darkness. Lestrade's office was the exception to that rule.

The basket was on one of the chairs in front of Lestrade's desk and easily accessible. Gregson braced himself, threw a glance back over his shoulder at Hopkins to assure himself that the cost was clear, and eased the basket out of the chair.

We cautiously made our way back out of Lestrade's office and retreated back to our makeshift kitchen, which consisted of a sink, a cabinet of cracked dishes, and a stove that was only good for boiling water in the dented teapot Gregson claimed had been here longer than he had. Of course, he also claimed Lestrade had once used it to ward off an angry, corrupt Inspector that had gone after him with a sword, which, as entertaining as the notion was, we were all hesitant to believe.

I set to brewing some tea while Hopkins nervously examined the contents of the lunch basket and Gregson drew himself up to his full height and glared at the poor Constable who was trying to figure out what we were doing and why we had been sneaking down the hallway like fugitives.

After finishing our tea and Lestrade's lunch, we went our separate ways back to our offices, and I resigned myself to doing some of my own paperwork. It was probably the better option between that and having Hopkins and Gregson miffed that I was going home and they weren't.

Hopkins and Jones had given up and gone home by the time I locked up my own office and headed out. Gregson was still working in his office as I left.

I spent the following morning interviewing the neighbors. I did not learn much.

According to the neighbors, the family got along well. They did not fight, at least, if they did it was never in public. The house was generally a quiet, peaceful place.

The daughter, they said, was a bit on the wild side, however. That she often went out walking by herself and to the market unescorted were a few of the examples I was given of this alleged wildness.

The cook and the maid might as well have been part of the family, I was told. This did not surprise me much, in spite of Miss Jacobs' assertion that they were not that close.

Watson, I learned, was considered by most of the neighbors to be a good man. He was hardworking, well mannered, and handsome to boot. It was a pity, I was told, that the daughter would not have him.

I wondered, as I headed back to the Yard, if the murder could possibly been over the proposed marriage between Watson and the daughter. But who had killed him, and why?

According to the daughter the uncle would have sided with her on the matter and both her father and Mr. Watson knew as much. Whether this was entirely true or not, I did not know, and made a note to ask Mr. Southhall about his brother's views on his daughter's proposed marriage to Mr. Watson.

"Inspector Bradstreet." I turned to see Miss Southhall stepping down off her porch and coming towards me.

"Miss Southhall," I greeted her with a smile. She returned it, briefly.

"Father says I am not to go out alone after what happened to my uncle. I was hoping to go the Grocer's for dinner, but my Father is busy. Would you accompany me? It would not take long."

I do not know for the life of me why I agreed, but I did.

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	4. Chapter 4

Miss Southall did not utter another word for the duration of the trip. She knew her way around the grocery store; she had been truthful when she had said it would not take long.

We walked back to her home in continued silence. Since it did not bother her, I did not try to fill the quiet with idle chatter, but instead found myself trying to remember when the last time I had taken a walk with a pretty girl had been. I could not remember.

"Thank you," she said as we reached her home.

"My pleasure," I told her with a nod and a smile. "Good day, Miss Southall."

She turned and went in without a backwards glance in my direction, and I continued on my way back to the Yard.

Back at the Yard I ran into the new Rookie. Literally. I was, however, fortunate in that I have never been one to be easily knocked down, though I did stumble back a bit. I was actually more worried about the Rookie as I regained my balance to find him turning an alarming shade of red and stammering out what I guessed were apologies and explanations and excuses faster than I could hear let alone comprehend.

I was relieved when Lestrade showed up to rescue us both. "I told you to be more careful, Cratchet." Lestrade told him. "You're lucky you ran into Bradstreet. He won't hold it against you."

Cratchet looked first to Lestrade and then back to me, not entirely convinced. I smiled, going for reassuring. "No harm done." I said. "Nothing to worry about. What do you make of Scotland Yard, Constable?"

Cratchett promptly reddened and began stammering again, and I wondered how Lestrade was managing with this easily intimidated fellow.

Lestrade shook his head. "Bradstreet's just trying to be friendly, Cratchet." He told him. "Run along. It's been a long day." For both of us, Lestrade did not add.

Cratchet took the opportunity for escape and made a break for it. "He all right?" I asked.

"He's nervous and a bit high strung." Lestrade replied noncommittally. "We'll see what happens tomorrow." He turned in the direction of his office.

"Do you have a minute?" I asked quickly. Lestrade did not stop.

"If you want to follow me back to my office and talk while I'm working, yes." He said. I took him up on the offer and wondered just how far behind the man actually was in his own paperwork.

It was not common knowledge that I had been going to Lestrade for advice on cases for almost as long as I had been here. Not that I cared whether people knew or not, it just did not come up in everyday conversation.

Lestrade was an excellent person to go to for help. He was an excellent listener, and more than a few times I had come across important details that I had missed simply by organizing and relate a case to him. He also usually knew the right questions to ask, and could sometimes offer a few insights of his own based on similar cases in his experience.

The price of this was that I usually spent the next week brewing tea for him. Lestrade was entirely capable of brewing his own tea, and usually did, but it was part of the man's odd sense of humor (and yes, Lestrade did have a sense of humor) that in return for use of his ear and sometimes his brain I usually ended up running small errands for him for the following week.

It was not something I minded, to be honest, and it was rarely enough that Lestrade was anything but professional in the workplace that I actually kind of enjoyed the 'joke' myself. Others probably wondered, though, when they caught me bringing Lestrade a cup of tea. They also probably missed the twinkle in his dark eye as he accepted it.

I outlined the details of the case for Lestrade while he started on a stack of papers, from the victim to the room in which he had been found to the setup of the house and the dynamics of the family. He was quiet as I told him of even the trip to the Grocer's, and if I had not known better I would have thought he was only humoring me while he tried to get some work done.

"What do you think?" I asked when I had told him everything.

Lestrade paused in his writing, and considered before answering. "Miss Southall knows more than she's saying." He finally offered before going back to his paperwork.

"She doesn't say much." I replied.

Lestrade did not say anything. He merely looked at me. Then he looked at the chair that had held his basket the evening before.

"Point taken." I said, heading out the door. "Thank you."

"Lizzie wants her basket back." Lestrade called after me as I went.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	5. Chapter 5

"I was wondering if I might ask you a few questions, Miss Southall." I explained.

"About my uncle's murder." She said, and I nodded. "Very well." Miss Southall agreed, but remained standing in the doorway. "My father and brother are not home at present." She explained.

I wondered if she intended for us to have this conversation on the front porch. I could do that.

"Perhaps I should come back at a time when you are not unchaperoned." I suggested.

"If you would prefer it." She said.

I was not sure I would. The woman did not seem inclined to talk when there were people around to do so for her. Or perhaps it was simply that I was now asking questions that required spoken answers.

"You were the one to find your uncle." I said, and was rewarded with a curt nod. "Could you tell me what you remember about finding him?"

Another nod. "My father was surprised when he did not come down to breakfast. He asked me to go check on him. I went upstairs and knocked at his door. There was no reply, but the door was not latched, so I went in." Raised eyebrows dared me to comment on the fact that she had simply walked into her uncle's room.

"Your uncle was not careless about closing his bedroom door, I take it?" I asked. Miss Southall looked surprised.

"He is not. My father tends to leave his bedroom door opened, but never my uncle." She offered. "I went in and saw him lying face down in a pool of blood." She swallowed before continuing. "I went to him and called his name. He didn't answer. He was stiff, cold." She fell silent.

"When was the last time you saw him alive?" I asked gently.

Miss Southall sighed. "We spoke briefly last night before I went to bed. He asked if I was still firm in my decision not to marry Mr. Watson. I told him I was."

"And?" I pressed. Perhaps it was none of my business, but if there were anything, anything at all that might help, I needed to know.

"And he said he knew one day I would find someone and not to worry about it. He patted me on the head as if I were still four years old and said goodnight. I left him and went to bed. I heard the latch click behind me as he closed the door." Miss Southall looked away as she finished her narrative.

I frowned at the woman standing before me. "Is there anything you aren't telling me, Miss Southall?" I asked. "Something I need to know?"

A frown flitted across her features but smoothed out almost instantly. "Better to tell you now than to be found out later, I suppose." She said softly, whether to me or to herself I did not know. "I was in the habit, in the States, of carrying a small dagger concealed on my person. It turned up missing two days before my uncle was killed. I thought nothing of it at first, but last night I began to wonder. I am not usually one to misplace things; I kept it in the same place always."

This was an interesting development. "You looked for it?"

"I searched my room top to bottom. It was the only place I ever set it down." She replied.

I was not entirely certain how to take this latest development. "Who knows you carry this dagger?" I asked cautiously.

"My father knows. My uncle knew. Neither Miss Larson nor Miss Jacobs know." Miss Southall thought for a moment. "I do not know if Mr. Watson knows."

It was possible, then, that the dagger was the murder weapon; it was equally possible that it's absence was merely coincidence.

Working with Lestrade made me reluctant to believe in coincidences.

If it were the murder weapon, had the dagger been stolen from Miss Southall's room? Had she used it to kill her uncle herself and then hidden it, and was now falsely claiming it was lost?

"How long was this dagger?" I asked, not really expecting her to know. "How wide was the blade?"

She thought for a moment. "It was not very large. Perhaps the width of a man's finger. Also a little longer than a man's finger, I think. The sheath hung on a chord. It was meant to look like a piece of jewelry. The blade was sharp."

"We need to find it, if we can." I decided. Her eyes widened, and I stifled a sigh. It was not the first time I had put myself in such a position for the sake of the job, and unfortunately it would probably not be the last.

"Best do it now, while my father is out." She said firmly, recovering. "Unless you want to have to try to explain why searching my rooms is imperative to finding his brother's murderer.

Now was definitely the better choice of the two.

I was no Sherlock Holmes, but I think it was pretty safe to say that the dagger was not in Miss Southall's room.

I tried to keep everything in order as I searched her room, but in the end there was still a considerable amount of work involved in putting the room back together. I was only glad that Miss Southall had left me alone to search her room. There is something unnerving about going through a person's belongings with them standing there watching you do it.

The dagger was not in her room. Of that much I was certain.

Whether that was a good thing or not, I did not know. Nor was I sure whether or not it meant well for Miss Southall.

I was relieved, however, when neither Mr. Southall nor Mr. Watson returned while I was searching the young lady's room.

I had searched the rest of the house already, with the exception of Mr. Southall and Mr. Watson's rooms. I would have liked to have searched both, but there had not really been enough of a reason to insist upon it, and such investigations are generally easier when one is on good terms with as many members of the household as possible.

I mentioned to Miss Southall, as we returned to the porch, that I would have liked to search their rooms. She pursed her lips in thought for a second. "I could get them out of the house for you." She offered.

I was hesitant. Something about the offer set off warning flags in my mind. Maybe it was that the last time I had let someone help me I had ended up having a vase smashed on the back of my head.

Maybe it was that I was hoping to find the dagger in one of their rooms.

Maybe it was that she was offering to help deceive her father and Mr. Watson so a police man could plunder their rooms.

"Maybe," I finally told her.

"I'll get them out tomorrow." She said decisively.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	6. Chapter 6

"The coroner estimates that Southhall's throat was cut by a small, thin blade." I told Lestrade as I set a hot cup of tea down on his desk. "Miss Southhall claims to have misplaced a small, thin dagger two days before her uncle was found dead."

Lestrade waved me absently to a chair, but did not look up from his papers. I took it the offered seat before continuing.

"He also estimates that the time of death was around one in the morning." I added.

Lestrade did not comment. I wondered how the man always seemed to know when there was more that I was not saying.

"I searched Miss Southhall's room. No sign of the dagger." I hesitated. "Do women really carry around concealed daggers for protection?" I asked.

"Some do." Lestrade replied, unconcerned. "Now what?"

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. "She offered to get her father and Watson out of the house so I could search their rooms." I said. "I've searched the rest of the house and there's been no trace of it."

Lestrade made a face; he never was big on involving outsiders. It made me wonder how Holmes had ever gotten started as the Yard's unofficial consultant.

"If I accepted her offer, would I be putting her in danger?" I finally asked.

"Not if she's the killer." Lestrade replied.

"What if her father is? Or Watson?" I countered.

"Not if they don't find out." Lestrade frowned. "I don't have to tell you that conducting a thorough search of an area without getting caught is tricky. You never know when your suspect will be coming back."

I groaned. "One room would be bad enough." I rubbed my temple as I considered the situation. "With two..."

"You'd do better having as second person." Lestrade grumbled.

I lept at the chance. It was not everyday that Lestrade offered to tag along as a second pair of eyes on a questionable search. Not that anyone who did not know him well would recognize the offer as such "Would you mind?" I asked.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at the question. "When are we going?" He asked instead of actually answering.

"She promised to get them out tomorrow." I told him. Then I smiled. "Thanks." I said.

"I have work to do." Lestrade said pointedly. I took the statement as the dismissal it was and excused myself.

I felt better as I headed home; a second pair of eyes was always helpful in our work, and even Holmes had to admit that the man was thorough.

Part of me was hesitent, nonetheless, to bring Lestrade in. I wondered if I were worried that he would maintain that Miss Southhall was still hiding something, and in the next second I wondered why that was.

If she were still hiding something, we needed to know what it was. I had no reason to believe she might be still hiding something; the thought that Lestrade might find that she was was without warrant.

Was I afraid that Lestrade might see something in the woman's behavior that I had overlooked? It was possible.

But why did I worry about Lestrade seeing something I had missed? That was why I was talking to him, right? That was why I was asking for his help. In case I had missed something?

I knew I was not worried that Lestrade would think less of me for missing something. Unless I had tripped over the murder weapon and not realized what it was Lestrade was unlikely to think me an idiot for missing something. No one was perfect, after all.

It had nothing to do with Lestrade evaluating my performance. After all, I had worked closely with the man from day one when he had been assigned the task of making sure I did not kill myself my first week on the job. After making half a dozen really stupid mistakes that were partly due to nerves, you got over having him scrutinize your work.

So why was I worried about tomorrow? It was not as if Lestrade was actually going to meet her.

That thought stopped me in my tracks. What did it matter whether Lestrade met Miss Southhall or not? For that matter, as a second pair of eyes would it not be better if he did meet her?

I shook my head and tried to push the entire case out of my mind. There was nothing more I could really do until tomorrow.


	7. Chapter 7

Miss Larson met us at the door. "Miss Southhall said to let you in." The housekeeper greeted us. "And to stay out of your way."

Lestrade frowned. "And it doesn't matter to you why you're to let us in?" He asked sharply.

Miss Larson shrugged. "It has something to do with the older Mr. Southhall's murder." She replied matter-of-factly. "The younger Mr. Southhall has already said that we are to accommodate you in every way possible."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Even if it means us searching private rooms while Miss Southhall keeps her father and Mr. Watson away and unaware of our visit?"

Miss Larson met his gaze without flinching. "The innocent parties have nothing to fear." She replied. "The guilty needs to be caught." She looked over at me, then.

"Is he trying to talk me out of letting you in?" She asked me, slightly amused.

I smiled at the woman. "He wants to be sure you realize what you're doing by letting us in." I assurred her.

Miss Larson returned the smile briefly. "I would do what I can to help you find the murderer even without Miss Southhall's approval." She informed us. "Come in."

She disappeared almost immediately, and I led Lestrade up the stairs and down the hall to the two rooms in question. "I'll take Mr. Watson's room." I said. "Mr. Southhall's room is there." I pointed.

Lestrade nodded, and we got to work.

I did not find anything. I went over Mr. Watson's room from top to bottom and found absolutely nothing. I only hoped that Lestrade was having better luck than I was.

On second thought, if he were having better luck it meant that Miss Southhall's father was guilty. For some reason the thought bothered me more than it should have.

Lestrade appeared out of nowhere, grabbed me by the arm and began hauling me from the room. I quelled the impulse to demand to know what was going on and what he was doing. Generally when Lestrade resorted to manhandling his fellow Inspectors, he had a reason for it.

"Miss Southhall's room?" He asked, his voice barely a whisper. I pointed, and Lestrade immediately darted towards the only room left-the late Mr. Southhall's bedroom. I followed without hesitation.

"The body was here?" He asked, pointing. His voice was once again at its normal volume. I was not entirely sure what was going on, but went along with it anyway.

"The head was here." I moved to demonstrate. "The feet here."

"He was lying face downward." Lestrade continued, and I heard the footsteps on the stairs. I had not heard the family return home. He knelt to examine the stain from the pool of blood.

Lestrade looked up innocently as Southhall and Watson paused in the door. "Who is this?" Watson demanded sharply.

"Inspector Lestrade." Lestrade answered without standing. "Inspector Bradstreet asked for a second opinion. I asked to see where the murder took place." He explained.

"Miss Jacobs said you were searching our rooms." Watson accused, and I winced. Lestrade merely raised an eyebrow. "What were you looking for?"

"The murder weapon." Lestrade replied evenly. "Is that a problem?"

"Certainly not." Southhall assured him. "We are entirely at your disposal, Inspectors."

Lestrade went back to examining the room, but asked no more questions. I retreated back into the doorway where I would be out of the way, but Southhall and Watson seemed less inclined to stay clear of Lestrade as he quietly went over every inch of the room.

Or tried to. The two men were still in the room, hovering, and having a hard time staying out of Lestrade's way. He did not say anything, but I could see that the two were getting on his nerves, especially when Watson started asking questions.

"Have you searched all the other rooms?" Watson asked curiously. "We weren't gone that long."

Lestrade fought back a groan and replied. "Every room but Miss Southhall's. Bradstreet was just going to check it out, with your permission, Mr. Southhall."

Southall nodded. "Certainly."

I realized Lestrade was trying to get rid of me. Well, them, actually. He was hoping they would go with me. I tried to look uncertain.

"You want me to search Miss Southhall's room?" I asked. "Is that appropriate?"

Lestrade shot me a look. "Murder is hardly appropriate, Bradstreet."

Watson took the bait and chuckled. "Come on, Inspector, and we'll brave the young lady's room together." He raised his eyebrows towards Southhall. "With your permission of course, sir."

Southhall nodded. "Go ahead."

I led the way. At least I had gotten Watson out of Lestrade's way. Southhall would probably end up pretending to be a murder victim if he did not remove himself from Lestrade's way soon.

I searched the room again, knowing that I would find nothing. I still went through the drawers of her dresser, through the closet, under the bed-

And stared at what I saw back in the corner, nearly hidden from sight. "Lestrade!" I called, digging through my pockets and cursing myself for not having a handkerchief on me. "Lestrade!"

"What is it?" Watson asked, suddenly worried. I heard footsteps entering the room behind me and called over my shoulder,

"Do you have a handkerchief, Lestrade?" I held my hand out and felt a folded handkerchief pressed into it. "Thank you." I shook it out and reached forward to wrap it around the knife. I crawled out from under the bed and held my prize out to Lestrade.

"Didn't bother to clean it off." He commented, taking the knife and handkerchief and examining the blood smeared weapon. "Go get Miss Southhall and ask if this is hers."

I nodded numbly and took off, leaving Watson and Southhall still staring. I found Miss Southhall in the sitting room.

"Can you join us upstairs please, Miss Southall?" I asked her, the words sounding hollow.

She rose and followed me up the stairs without a word. I led her back into her room where Lestrade held the knife out to her. "Is this yours?" He asked.

She paled, but nodded, causing an outburst from both of the men in the room.

"She would never-"

"How could you-?"

"Quiet." Lestrade said sharply, turning back to Miss Southhall when the two men fell silent. "You told Inspector Bradstreet that your knife has been missing since two days before the murder. Do you want to reconsider that?"

She met his eyes and shook her head, and my brain started working again.

"It wasn't there before." I told Lestrade. "The knife. When I searched her room yesterday it wasn't there."

Watson and Southhall blinked, but Lestrade merely waited. "I wouldn't have missed it." I insisted.

"So it was planted." Lestrade sounded skeptical.

"It had to be." I said. Lestrade shook his head, handed the knife back to me, and went back to the murdered man's room without comment.

Miss Southhall looked at me uncertainly. I offered her a reassuring smile. "We'll find who did this."

"Be careful not to let a pretty face cloud your judgment." Watson muttered under his breath as he excused himself.

Mr. Southhall shook his head wearily and followed Watson. Miss Southhall watched him go with wide eyes.

"He thinks I killed him." She said softly. "My own father thinks I killed my uncle."

"Somebody tried to frame you." I said, and she turned to stare at me.

"You think it was him?" She demanded.

"I don't know." I admitted. "But I know it wasn't you. The knife wasn't there before."

"Your Inspector friend doesn't believe that." She challenged.

I shook my head. I knew better than that. "We'll find whoever did this." I promised.

Miss Southhall smiled at me. "Thanks." She whispered.

I found myself smiling back at her.


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade was finished with the room when Miss Southhall and I stepped out into the hall, though it was likely not by choice.

The door to the murdered man's room was closed, and I could hear Mr. Southhall saying that I seemed to have taken a liking to his daughter.

I flushed and refused to look Miss Southhall in the eye as I realized the woman's father was right, but heard her chuckle softly beside me.

The icy tone in Lestrade's voice snapped my attention back to the conversation going on in the other room. "Inspector Bradstreet knows better than to let personal feelings influence his work."

My head snapped up as I realized that apparently Mr. Southhall had questioned my ability to do my job without being distracted by a pretty face. My mouth went dry as Mr. Southhall spoke again.

"I hope you are right, Inspector." The man said. "All the same, I am glad to have someone with a little more experience here to handle the investigation now."

"If you will excuse me, Mr. Southhall. I have work to do." I heard Lestrade say instead of directly responding to the man's statement. He was not agreeing with Southhall, I realized. The doorknob turned and I considered bolting, but there was nowhere to run.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow at Miss Southhall and myself but did not comment. He headed down the hall toward the stairs with a short nod for me to follow.

I turned to Miss Southhall and offered her a reassuring smile. "I have to go." I said. "Don't worry. We'll find who did this."

She nodded in reply, but her eyes were worried.

I followed Lestrade downstairs, wondering if I were in trouble in spite of Lestrade's words to Southhall. Lestrade was not the type of person to speak ill of another behind his back, but it would not have been the first time Lestrade had defended one of his fellow Yarders only to turn around and subject him to a blistering lecture once the two were alone.

I tried to think of something, anything, I should have done differently, but could not.

I had not been distracted by Miss Southhall. I knew the knife had not been there before.

I only hoped Lestrade believed me.

We did not speak until we had reached the street corner. Then Lestrade turned to study me. I had no idea if he were waiting for me to speak or if I were supposed to say anything at all. So I waited.

"Is she going to be a problem?" He finally asked. I quickly shook my head.

"Whether I find the woman attractive or not doesn't change whether she's guilty or innocent." I pointed out, fully prepared for the useless exercise of defending myself. I had never heard of Lestrade being convinced that he was in the wrong in these sorts of situations.

"All right," Lestrade said, instead of pushing the matter.

I blinked. "All right?" I echoed, and Lestrade actually rolled his eyes at me.

"I know you, Bradstreet." He pointed out. "If you say the knife wasn't there, it wasn't there. Besides," he added, with just a hint of a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes, "I have enough to do already. I'm not taking over your investigation." He hesitated for a split second. "However, if Mr. Southhall gives you trouble..."

"You think he will?" I asked, concerned.

Lestrade shrugged. "He thought I was taking over for you. He's not going to be happy when he realizes he was mistaken."

I nodded; Lestrade was right about that. I did not ask why Lestrade had not set him straight back at the house; that was simply the way Lestrade was. If you made an incorrect assumption he did not always feel the need to correct you. "Who do you think put the knife there?" I asked instead.

Lestrade shrugged once more. "Could be Southhall, could be Watson. It could have been Miss Southhall herself, to make herself look innocent." He frowned as he considered the situation. "It could be any one in the house, Bradstreet." He pointed out. "What bothers me is why."

"Why was he killed." I agreed. "The closest thing I have to a motive is that he supposedly thought Miss Southhall should agree to marry Watson, but was willing to side with her on the matter anyway."

"Who told you that?" Lestrade asked. "Miss Southhall?" I nodded. "Did you verify it with the father?" He asked, and I could have kicked myself.

"No." I admitted. "She said both her father and Watson knew that he would have done so. I did not check to verify that either."

"There's your next step." Lestrade commented. I waited for him to say something about me trusting a possible suspect simply because I felt attracted to the woman, but he did not.

I realized we were finished and headed back with a sigh; I was not looking forward to dealing with Southhall once he realized that Lestrade had not actually taken over the case. I only hoped, for his sake, that he did not decide to push the matter.

Lestrade did not particularly care for being told what to do by civilians, especially when the competency of one of his fellow Inspectors was being called into question. The incident between Lestrade and a rather wealthy gentleman who had demanded Hopkins be taken off a case in which the lad had asked a few too many uncomfortable questions about the gentleman himself was legendary.

Said gentleman had been thoroughly offended and gone to Superintendent Marshall, who had smiled at the man and said he would deal with it.

Marshall had hauled Lestrade into his office demanding an explanation, but Lestrade had never been one to back down even before his superiors when he thought he was in the right. He had explained himself in a tone of voice that made it perfectly clear that any attempt to get him to change his mind on the matter would be a waste of time. Marshall had laughed and sent Lestrade back to work.

Hopkins had stayed on the case.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Southhall was not greatly put out by my return.

"I was under the impression that Inspector Lestrade was taking over?" He asked as he let me back into his house.

I suppose I should have been offended, but there was no doubt Lestrade had been at the job a lot longer than I had. "He has a number of cases to deal with already." I explained. "I'd like to ask you a few more questions, Mr. Southhall, if you don't mind."

The man frowned at me. "You don't think my daughter killed James, do you?" He asked, his eyes searching.

I sighed. "I don't know, Mr. Southhall." I admitted. "I know that somebody put that knife under her bed between yesterday and today. Whether it was your daughter that put it there or someone else, I cannot yet say."

"But you think someone else put it there." Southhall pressed.

"I do." I said uneasily. "It doesn't make sense for her to have put it there, especially not still covered in blood. She could have simply cleaned it off and continued carrying it with her."

"So someone put it there to frame her." Southhall looked relieved. "But who? And why?"

"I don't know yet." I said again. "Miss Southhall said that her uncle thought that she should marry Mr. Watson, but that if it came down to it, he would side with her on the matter. Do you know anything about that?"

Southhall had been nodding as I spoke. "Yes, James felt that Melissa should have some say in who she married. He personally thought that it would have been a good match, but Melissa was against it. He did not think she should have to marry someone she did not want to."

"You knew this. Did anyone else?" I asked. "Did Mr. Watson?"

"I believe he did, but I cannot be completely certain." Southhall admitted. He hesitated, but forced himself to ask anyway. "You don't think Watson did it?"

I shrugged. "It's possible." I replied.


	9. Chapter 9

Author's note: I'm back, at least for the week. This semester has been murder, and I've had it hard enough finding time to breathe let alone write. I'm on spring break now, though, so I will be back at least until Monday, when school starts back up. After that-well, we'll see what happens.

Thanks for your patience, and your understanding.

* * *

I needed to focus my attention on something else while my mind sorted through the events of today and everything I knew about the case. I headed back to the Yard to get some paperwork done.

I reached for the first paper in the stack and groaned. I also wondered if Jones had gotten _his_ report on that ghastly mess filed yet. Constable Evans had probably gotten his over as quickly as possible. Now there was a case that would make or break you on the force.

Evans had done well on that one. I was still unsure how he had managed to wait until _after_ the crime scene had been cleaned up to vomit, but at least he had not done so on the corpse. Nothing infuriated Jones quite like a weak-stomached Constable losing his lunch all over his crime scene. Then again, Jones had had a lot of back luck when it came to weak-stomached Constables and crime scenes, so I found it hard to blame him.

Of course, Evans was also one of Lestrade's. You could always tell the Constables who made it through their first two weeks with Lestrade. Smith and Adams were his, possibly the first, and two of the best. It was a wonder neither of them had been promoted yet, but they did not seem to mind. They also seemed to like their unofficial and unspoken (at least around Lestrade himself) designation as Lestrade's favorites.

Tanner had been one of Lestrade's, and a good one at that. His murder had hit Lestrade hard, though the Inspector had never let on that it was any worse than news of any other policeman being killed on the job other than a dark, never again mentioned conversation over a glass in a disreputable tavern in the dead of night.

That was also the night I learned just why Lestrade said that some people should never drink alone.

I pushed my thoughts away from that night and back to Lestrade's Constables. Evans had been the next after Tanner, and he was the reason the Superintendent had started pairing the Rookies up with Lestrade.

Evans had joined a year before I had been promoted, so I personally knew next to nothing about the disaster he was supposed to have been before Lestrade got a hold of him and straightened him out. I knew Evans now, though, and the man would do what needed to be done. He also handled criticism well, though I personally doubted anyone who spent much time under Lestrade could do so without learning how to deal with criticism.

After Evans the Superintendent had apparently caught on to Lestrade's knack for straightening out (or weeding out) and keeping alive Rookies. It was an unspoken law by now that the Rookie went to Lestrade, and Lestrade's cases went to Gregson, though lately very few newcomers had actually stuck out their two weeks with the man.

Not that I would blame Lestrade for that; I had seen Lestrade's last three Rookies, and none of them had been worth much. Two had very nearly gotten Lestrade killed, the other would have succeeded in getting himself killed if Lestrade had not been there to bail him out.

Cratchett was the newest, and I wondered how long he would last. Yesterday had been his third day on the job, and he had looked to be a wreck at the end of it. Lestrade had looked worn out himself.

I finished the report and moved on to the next sheet on my desk: a request for anything I had on the Randolph case from four years ago from Gregson. It was dated more than a week ago.

I wondered why Gregson had not come beating down the door for this request by now, but perhaps he had simply not had time yet. An abundance of paperwork was not the only thing demanding his attention; he was currently ahead of Lestrade in the number of cases he was running at once, no easy feat.

I found the files and headed for Gregson's office. He was still playing catch-up on his paperwork. I wondered what time he had gone home last night, and what time he had come in this morning. He looked tired.

"Your files," I stopped in the open doorway. Gregson never closed his door, not while he was in. He claimed he could not keep an eye on things with the door closed. He also maintained that people never suspected an open door, but I had yet to figure that one out.

Gregson looked up. "And only a week and a half late." He grumbled half-heartedly. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. "I could use a drink."

"Tomorrow is Friday." I pointed out, stepping forward and offering the files. "Sorry it took so long."

Gregson shrugged and reached forward for the folder. "I haven't been able to look into the matter yet anyway." He admitted, leaning back to flip through the information I had given him. "If I had needed it sooner I would have come for it."

It was true. Gregson had once showed up at Superintendent Marshall's brother's wedding because for a week the Superintendent had ignored a note saying that Gregson needed to ask him a few questions and Gregson had decided the matter could no longer wait. He had not actually ruined the wedding, fortunately, but rumor had it Marshall was still on bad terms with his sister-in-law even now, three years later.

Hopkins chose that moment to poke his head in through the doorway. "Can one of you spare an evening?" He asked. Gregson waved his folder at the lad, who turned to me.

"What are we doing?" I asked, hoping it did not involve being out all night. A full day of work following an all night stakeout was a horrible thing, especially after pulling an all-nighter with Hopkins or Lestrade. Those two grated even my nerves the next day, though Hopkins was generally the worse of the two.

Lestrade ignored his body's need for sleep. Hopkins, on the other hand, simply seemed not to need sleep. He showed up the day after an all night stake out looking just as chipper as if he had just come in from his day off.

"Stakeout." Hopkins replied as we left Gregson to his files. Oh, well. "I need someone who can linger nearby out in the cold without freezing to death." He added,and I chuckled.

"You want me to sit in an alley and watch a door." I said, to be certain I understood. Hopkins nodded and looked uncertain. I grinned. "Sounds better that paperwork." I said, which was true.

It was not, however, better than going to bed and actually getting a full night's sleep.

Four hours later I was sitting in an alley with my back to a brick wall of a pawn shop with my knees pulled up against my chest. I was also rocking back and forth just enough to look as if I were trying to keep warm.

The days may have been warmer, but the nights were still cold. The air felt a chilly to me, which meant that most people would be shivering. I knew better than to assume no one would notice that a filthy, ragged vagrant was unaffected by the cold, especially if someone were on the lookout for trouble, which was why I currently looked (and smelled, unfortunately) like someone who had nowhere and no one to go to.

Those passing by earlier had kept their distance. By now it was the darkest hour of the night, and no one was out who did not have to be. The street before me appeared empty, though I knew Hopkins was out of sight not far away.

The night was still, and I was tired. A single figure made his way slowly up the street. I looked down at my grime covered hands and tried to decide whether they would have fooled Sherlock Holmes. Probably not, but then again, not many could fool Holmes.

Hopkins had approved of them, and the lad had an uncanny eye for what kind of filth could be found on what kind of person. It made me wonder, at times, but it was not any of my business, and Hopkins was as forthcoming with his past as Lestrade was with his personal life.

I felt someone staring and looked up. I stifled a curse, barely, as I recognized the man looking down at me.

"Are you all right?" Of course Doctor Watson would be walking down my street in the dead of night. Of course he would stop and ask after the well being of a complete stranger.

I forced myself to smile, though it must have looked odd. I knew better than to actually let the man see my teeth. He would have known instantly that something was up.

I hoped I could get rid of him quickly. "Jus' out in the cold on a wicked nigh' is all, lad." I tried to reassure him. The forced hoarseness in my voice probably did not, but I did not want to risk him recognizing me if I could help it.

Dr. Watson frowned. "When's the last time you had something to eat?" I almost winced at the concern that was obvious in his expression and his tone.

I wondered if rudeness would run him off. Gently brushing off his concern would not. I glared at the Doctor. "Ya think yer some sorta do-gooder, son?" I demanded. "Gonna help some poor vagrant, that it?" I scowled up at the man in defiance. "I don' need yer help, so move on."

I heard something farther on, but could not identify it. Watson was apologizing. "I meant no insult." The Doctor's words were soft, soothing. "We all need a little help at times."

True enough, but right now Watson's kindness was more a plague than a blessing. "Not me. Not yours." I snarled. I stretched out my legs as I did so, hoping he would realize that I was bigger than he and move on.

A baleful glint in the doctor's eye assured me I had won this round, though it was a victory that held no glory. Watson was the last person in London to deserve a verbal thrashing, and I hated doing it.

He backed off. "Good evening to you, then-" I heard Hopkins swearing, caught a glint of metal, and reacted instantly. I reached forward and grabbed Watson's arm, jerking him down and out of harm's way even as I pulled myself up. "Stay down!" I ordered, mentally wincing at the bruised knee I had likely just inflicted on the man.

I hoped, as I went after the man we were after, the doctor would stay out of it. Hopkins' target was a dangerous man, one who would think nothing of killing someone simply because they happened to be in the way. He had done so at least once already...

I caught up with the piece of dirt and hit him hard enough that it should have knocked him down. He swayed slightly, but stayed up. That worried me.

Our eyes locked, and I knew I was in trouble.

"Don't move, any of you!" I heard Hopkins bellow and wondered how he suddenly sounded like a deadly combination of Jones, Gregson, and Lestrade all at once. "I am armed and will fire!" Came the blatant lie, but I stopped moving anyway. Hopkins sounded convincing.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Watson was up but had stopped in his tracks. Our quarry tensed, and I realized he was going to run anyway.

"He's gonna bolt." I declared, and the scum did. I heard Hopkins swear again as the murderer headed straight for Watson!

I watched him go, half expecting him to mow the doctor down and half expecting the doctor to shoot him himself.

Watson stepped out of the man's way only to swing around and deliver a solid blow to the back of the piece of filth's head with his cane. His would be assailant dropped to the ground.

"Nicely done, Dr. Watson." Hopkins called out as he made his way over. "What on earth are you doing out at this hour?" He inquired as he bent down to cuff his unconscious prisoner.

"Helping people." I offered, joining the group, and nearly laughed as Watson reddened.

Hopkins chuckled, not unkindly. "I saw him throw you down." He said to Watson, shooting me a look. "Are you all right?"

I grimaced as Watson brushed at his knee before rubbing his shoulder. "I was trying to get him out of the way." I told Hopkins. "He wouldn't leave."

"I'm fine." Watson said quickly. He looked worried, however, but that was probably over whether or not he had nearly botched the stakeout.

I offered the doctor an actual grin this time. Sure enough, his eyes went straight to my teeth. "No harm done, Watson." I assured him. "Never could fault you for kindness."

"I got this one." Hopkins spoke up as Watson flushed again. He eyed his prize with distaste. "Evans should be on his way here by now anyway."

I rolled my eyes at what the lad was not saying. "He's fine, Hopkins." I said, but stayed with the doctor anyway as Evans arrived on the scene and he and Hopkins proceded to cart the loathsome fellow off.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.

Watson knew he had missed something, but was not sure what. "Gregson through a fit on Lestrade for endangering civilians when time he let you get injured helping on that forgery case." I explained, keeping my voice low enough that neither Hopkins nor Evans could hear me.

"I split my knuckles on a man's face," Watson replied, "and Lestrade was helping us, not the other way around."

I shrugged. "Make's no difference to Gregson. You're a civilian, even if you were in the war." The memory of the incident between the two sombered me. "But it wasn't pretty," I continued, "so Hopkins is overly concerned," though I could hardly blame him, "which is why I'm walking you home."

It helped that Watson realized I did not actually doubt his ability to make it home. He could be a proud man, at times, and a stubborn one too. It could be a difficult combination to deal with.

It also helped that Watson did not seem to mind my company, tattered rags, smell, and all. We walked to Baker Street in an easy silence, said good night (though it was by now closer to morning), and I headed home, figuring I might actually get a few hours of sleep after all.


	10. Chapter 10

Hopkins did at least have the decency to make a decent pot of coffee after keeping you up all night. Lestrade kept to his tea no matter how many hours he had gone without sleep.

Hopkins had also threatened anyone who finished off the pot, it seemed. Hopkins had a knack for coffee unlike anyone I had ever met. It was almost worth being up all night. Maybe.

His coffee never lasted long, which was likely the reason for the threat. I poured the last of the coffee into my cup with relish and uttered a prayer that the day would be a quiet one before heading for my office.

The force that plowed into me as I turned the corner was not enough to knock me down, but the impact was more than enough to ruin my coffee.

A shattered mug and burns from steaming coffee warred and previous experience won out. I let the cup go and jerked backwards in time to avoid most of the hot liquid. I shook out my handkerchief with my left hand and dabbed at the angry red splotch forming on my right.

I was dimly aware of a stammering, stuttering shadow chasing me as I turned and went straight back to the kitchen to rinse my hand in cold water. Cratchett, I realized belatedly and wondered where Lestrade was if not with the Rookie.

I looked up at the white-faced, white-eyed apparition before me and wondered if it really were possible to die of fright. "Did you get any on you?" I asked, looking him over. He managed a choking noise, but that was all.

I decided he had escaped the scalding beverage and handed him a towel. "Help me clean this up." I said, leading the way back to the mess.

I realized my mistake as a shard from my mug drew blood from one of the boy's trembling fingers. "I've got it, Cratchett." I said a bit sharply, eliciting another stammered attempt at an apology, but at least he got out of the way.

I turned my attention to Lestrade's Rookie after the mess was taken care of and wondered how on earth he could have cut himself that badly on a sliver of cup. I never gave him a choice, but pressed my handkerchief (part of it was still clean) against the cut.

"Come on," I wondered if Lestrade were in his office, "let's get you taken care of." I hoped Lestrade was in his office.

He was not. I wondered if it were my imagination that Cratchett was not surprised. It was hard to tell, the way he looked as if he might flee at any given moment.

Still, he had come back after his first few days with Lestrade. That said _something_ for him.

I tried to decide what to do with the boy. I could hardly leave him here to bleed all over Lestrade's floor.

I guided Cratchett to a chair, gently shoved him into it, and crossed the small office to lean out through the doorway. "Jones!" I called, hoping he was in.

He was, and I was relieved to note that things appeared to have been resolved at home. "What?" He demanded.

"I need you to look at this."

Cratchett paled even more as Jones grabbed his hand to examine his finger. An expert flick of the wrist drew out a clean handkerchief and wiped the blood away in one swift motion, leaving me to wonder how much practice Jones had had at that particular trick.

He scowled at the finger Cratchett had somehow managed to slice open and pulled a thin roll of bandaging from same pocket in his jacket as he kept his cigarettes. I recalled anew that Jones payed fewer visits to physicians than Lestrade did as he also pulled out a flask I had never seen him drink from and splash something on the wound that made Cratchett jump and yelp like a startled puppy.

Jones had wrapped his finger and told him to keep it clean and covered before Cratchett landed back in his chair. He was gone a second later.

I wondered absently why, if Jones disliked people so much, he worked so hard to protect them.

I heard Lestrade coming, for once. He was humming. At least, _humming_ was what most people called it, though the sound was largely tuneless and usually off key. It was a relief to everyone at the Yard that Lestrade rarely hummed.

"What did you do to him, Bradstreet?" Cratchett had not heard the Inspector coming; he jumped again as Lestrade strode into his office.

"I spilled coffee on him." I offered, too tired to care that Cratchett's eyes were threatening to pop out of his head again.

Lestrade nodded briskly, and I wondered how much sleep_ he_ was getting. "Hopkins got his man, then." He commented and went back to humming whatever it was as he sat down at his desk. The sound had nothing to do with Lestrade's mood, and the man seemed largely unaware he was doing it unless you pointed it out to him. Usually it meant that Holmes had actually been playing actual music on his violin during Lestrade's last visit and the tune had latched on to Lestrade and stuck with him.

I had thought, however, that Jones, who found Lestrade's tuneless humming particularly maddening, had taken care of the matter. Apparently he had not.

I nodded in agreement with Lestrade's observation and barely stifled a yawn. "The Rookie cut his finger. Jones said to keep it clean." I took one last look at Cratchett, who still looked as if he expected me to knock him down for spilling my coffee, and headed for the door.

I resigned myself to boiling my own coffee, which while not one of the best brews in the Yard was not the worst and certainly better than nothing, and retreated to my office.

I managed to get quite a bit of work done before lunch. The day was somewhat of a rarity; usually the days you needed a bit of peace were the busiest.

I stared at my desk, marveling at the fact that it was clean in what was probably the first time in years. It would also probably be years before such a thing happened again.

I turned my thoughts to the Southhall case, hoping my mind had had enough time to digest everything, and reviewed what I knew.

James Southhall had been found in his bedroom during the breakfast hour face down on the floor, his throat slit. His niece had been the one to find him.

He had last been seen the night before. His brother, niece, and the niece's suitor had been there that night, as had the cook and the housekeeper. Any one of them could have committed the murder.

The niece owned a knife with a blade the same size as whatever knife had been used to slit James Southhall's throat. She claimed it had disappeared two days before the murder.

The knife had not been in the room when I had originally searched it. It was found under her bed the following day, with blood still on it.

James Southhall approved of a marriage between his niece and her suitor. Her father approved as well. The young lady in question had said in no uncertain terms that she would not marry the man. In spite of his favoring the marriage, James Southhall did not wish for his niece to marry against her will.

The cook and the housekeeper might as well have been family. The suitor was counted as soon-to-be family. The family got along surprisingly well with each other.

So who had murdered James Southhall, and why?

Who had planted the knife under the Miss Southhall's bed?

I wondered if Watson had known about the knife. I wondered if the cook and the housekeeper had. I would find out.

I stopped on my way out to watch as Jones interrupted a conversation between Gregson and Sherlock Holmes. Watson was watching as well, from a distance. Around Holmes the doctor always slipped into the role of the quiet observer, leaving Holmes in the spotlight. I wondered if anyone realized how much Watson actually saw.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming here after yesterday." Jones accused Holmes, and the amateur detective's eyebrows lifted. He seemed to have no idea to what Jones was referring. Watson looked equally confused, Gregson resigned.

Jones glared at Holmes. "We told you to stop playing the violin around Lestrade." He grumbled, and Holmes' expression cleared. Watson's did as well-a little.

Jones realized Watson had no idea what the problem was. It set him off. "He's been humming!" Jones growled. "Whatever you were playing, he's been humming it all morning! You can't even tell what he's humming, either." He complained. "The man can't carry a tune."

"He can," Gregson chose to take up for Lestrade over the oddest things, "very well, in fact. He just usually doesn't." I wondered when Gregson had heard Lestrade actually singing, and what had lead to it.

"Well he sounds terrible right now." Jones pointed out. "I wish someone would shoot one of us and put me out of my misery." He shot Holmes one last dark look before storming off.

I laughed softly to myself and continued on my way.

Miss Larson, the housekeeper, looked worried when she opened the door. She was quiet as she let me in the house and took me back to the kitchen, where the cook seemed just as upset. It did not take me long to learn why.

"A quarrel?" I repeated, not certain I had heard correctly.

Miss Jacobs nodded as she poured out a cup of tea for the distraught housekeeper. "The first one I've ever heard in this household." She confirmed, pouring out a second cup of tea.

She offered the cup to me. I was experienced enough with people who took comfort in throwing themselves into their work to know to accept it.

"It happened after breakfast." The cook explained. "I couldn't hear what it was about, but Miss Southall left shortly afterward and hasn't come back. Mr. Southhall is out looking for her now with Mr. Watson's help."

I wondered why this had not been reported, but then reconsidered the matter. The woman probably had not been gone long enough to cause any real concern, and she struck me as the type sensible enough not to put herself in danger even if she were upset.

But that was under normal circumstances. With the murder of her uncle, the fact that she had not come back yet could mean she was in danger.

Or that she had committed the murder herself, I reluctantly admitted. Was it possible the girl's father or Watson had confronted her about it being her knife that had been found covered in blood? If she were guilty, she might have run.

"Are you sure you don't know what they were arguing about?" I asked carefully. The cook shook her head.

I resisted the urge to sigh and asked another question. "Did either of you know that Miss Southhall carried a knife?"

It was possibly not the best time to ask such a thing, but I was hoping to catch them off guard. People were more honest that way.

I was also, I admit, hoping the idea of the woman having a knife might reassure the two concerning Miss Southhall's disappearance.

The cook was only moderately surprised; the housekeeper was horrified. Neither of them had known.

"She was in the habit of carrying a small dagger concealed on her person for protection. Wherever she went after she and her father quarreled," I lied, "She likely has it with her."

Both Miss Jacobs and Miss Larson relaxed a little at the thought that the young lady was not completely helpless. "Are you going to help look for her?" The cook wanted to know. I nodded.

"It would help if I knew what places she tends to frequent." I said.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	11. Chapter 11

I searched the missing woman's room once again before I left. Nothing had changed this time. There was nothing to suggest why she might have left or where she would have gone.

I wanted to take the list of places I had gotten from Miss Jacobs and start looking for her right then and there, but I knew better. Alone I had little chance of finding her. Even if I did manage to find her, one person might not be of much help if she were in trouble. Lestrade would kill me for taking off on my own anyway.

I went back to the Yard for help. Gregson was the first person I ran into.

He listened as I explained the situation and frowned as I reluctantly admitted how long she had been missing.

Gregson sighed. "That's not very long." He pointed out.

"She could be in danger." I countered.

"Or on the run herself." Gregson added softly. "But that's not enough to justify putting out a search, especially if no one's even reported her missing yet."

I felt my shoulders tensing in rebellion, but Gregson surprised me. "Hopkins, Smith, and Adams are getting ready to go off duty." He told me. "And Lestrade's Rookie got left behind earlier. Go gather them up and go look for her." He suggested, though the way Gregson said it made it almost sound like an order.

I did so with only a little remorse for keeping them from their homes. It was part of the job, and they all knew it.

Hopkins merely shrugged and fell into step with me, and I realized I did not actually feel bad for keeping him out. Turnabout was, after all, fair play, and it was not like he was going to be dead on his feet the following morning as a result anyway.

Constables Smith and Adams sighed and exchanged a half amused glance before responding with their customary "yes, sir."

Cratchett stared at me as if I had lost my mind. I ignored his only half coherent protests and scribbled a note to Lestrade. I left it on his desk and returned to the other three members of my unofficial search party. Cratchett continued stammering, but at least he followed.

From the list I had made and knowledge of the area surrounding the Southhall's home, we worked out the details of our search. Smith and Adams, who seemed to do their best work when it was just the two of them, took off together.

Evans overheard our discussion on his way out and volunteered to help, and he and Hopkins set out in another direction, leaving me with Cratchett, who had mercifully fallen silent by this time.

Hours later we had seen nothing of the woman, and a quick check at home confirmed that Miss Southhall had not come back yet, nor had her father returned from searching for her.

Not one of the men I had kept from going home that night suggested we give it up for the night, though Evans was by now hard put to keep from yawning and Cratchett was jumpier than a cricket bug.

I wished I knew what the quarrel had been about, but no one had been at the Southhall home who could have told me. Watson had still been out searching as well.

Had they accused Miss Southhall of murder?

If they had, and she had run, it suggested she was guilty. I did not want to believe that, but it was entirely possible.

It looked more than just possible right now.

By morning I was even more worried and the others were exhausted. We were all needed back at the Yard.

Smith, Adams, and Evans left to report in after offering to continue the search after their shifts ended. They were gone before I could tell them they needed to make sure they got some rest.

"So do you, Bradstreet." Hopkins chided, but his words were gentle. "You're no good to her if you kill yourself."

I sighed. "I know, Hopkins, I just..." I did not know how to finish.

Hopkins offered me a smile. "We'll catch a few hours of sleep after our shift and go back out to look for her." He told me. "Even I can't go without sleep indefinitely."

I returned his smile. "Thank you, Hopkins." I said, and the lad rolled his eyes at me good-naturedly before heading off for his office.

That left Cratchett, who had been trailing my steps as silently as a shadow all night. I decided it was time to return him to Lestrade's office before the other Inspector came looking for him.

"Where the devil have you been, Cratchett?" Lestrade demanded as we reached his office door. Cratchett flushed all over again and I started to answer, but was stopped by the look Lestrade shot in my direction.

Cratchett stammered but did not manage an answer that made any sense, and Lestrade sighed and came out in front of his desk. He advanced upon the poor Constable, and Cratchett in turn retreated until he found his back up to the wall and could go no farther.

"Stop that." Lestrade ordered, and the Rookie fell silent. "Look me in the eye." Cratchett reluctantly forced himself to somehow meet Lestrade's eyes. I was impressed; the boy was obviously terrified.

"Do you want to stay on the force, Cratchett?" Lestrade asked, his voice soft. Cratchett managed to nod, but Lestrade was not satisfied. "Answer me."

"Yes." The reply was nearly a whisper. Lestrade waited. "Yes." Cratchett said again, stronger this time.

"Prove it." Lestrade said bluntly, and Cratchett's eyes flickered back to the floor for half a second before returning to Lestrade's. "Where were you?" Lestrade asked again.

Cratchett was silent for a long moment, and I wondered if I were witnessing the Rookie's last few minutes on the job. But then Lestrade would hardly be wasting his time now if he were planning to get rid of the boy.

When Cratchett finally spoke, it was without even a tremor. "I was helping Inspector Bradstreet search for a missing woman." He said.

Lestrade turned to me. "Miss Southhall?" He asked sharply. I nodded. "Her father just reported that she was missing, Bradstreet."

"I know." I said. "I found out yesterday."

"And drafted people to go looking for her." Lestrade added. "You took Cratchett; who else?"

"Smith and Adams." I told him. "Evans, Hopkins. We didn't find even a trace of her."

Lestrade frowned and looked back at Cratchett, who threatened to turn red again. "You were out all night?"

"Y-yes." Cratchett managed. I think he was afraid not to answer by now.

Lestrade considered him. "I should send you home." He commented.

Cratchett swallowed nervously before forcing himself to speak up. "I can m-manage, s-sir."

Lestrade looked over at me. "We'll see." He said to the Constable.

* * *

Disclaimer: Sherlock and the boys do not belong to me.


	12. Chapter 12

Author's note. I'm just going to do it. I've had this finished for months, but it's not the way I would have wanted it to end, and not the way Bradstreet wanted it to end. I've let it rest and read it over and over and over and tried and tried and tried-but this it the final result, and there is absolutely nothing I can do to change it. I'm through doubting myself and my writing abilities just because I can't get this to work out any other way.

Sorry for the delay, folks. Thanks for your patience. I hope you like the last two chapters more than I do.

* * *

"Did Mr. Southhall report her disappearance to you?" I asked Lestrade.

The other Inspector nodded. "He said she went out yesterday morning and never came back."

"There was a quarrel of some sort." I put in.

"Mr. Southhall let her go, thinking she needed some time to think." Lestrade agreed. "Mr. Watson started it. He told the Southhalls that he knew it was the worst possible time but that he could go no longer without professing his love for Miss Southhall and asking for her hand in marriage."

"She said no." I guessed.

"She said no." Lestrade confirmed. "Southhall had little else to say other than that a few tempers were lost and that his daughter finally stormed out of the house, leaving the two men alone in the dining room."

"Southhall and Watson spent yesterday looking for her when she didn't come back a few hours later." He added, looking thoughtful.

"She could be in danger, Lestrade." I said. "Whoever killed her uncle could be targeting other members of the family."

"She could have been the one to murder him." Lestrade countered.

"The fight would give her an excuse to run away." I admitted, considering Lestrade's suggestion. "People would think she just didn't want to marry Watson." It was possible. I did not like the idea, but it was still possible. "Either way, she needs to be found."

Lestrade nodded, but his expression was grim. "London can be a difficult place to find someone who doesn't want to be found."

"If you know what you're doing." I pointed out. "I doubt Miss Southhall herself has had much practice keeping out of sight."

Lestrade did not look immensely relieved by the thought. I found it less than reassuring myself.

"Gather your search party from last night." I was not surprised that Lestrade had not bothered asking how many of them were here today in spite of being out all night. With that bunch there was no need. "I'll pull Gregson and Jones in on this. See if I can find a few more Constables as well. We'll start where you left off and go from there."

I nodded and left to hunt down the others.

Hopkins was on his way out when I reached his office. "Sorry, Bradstreet," He said as he darted past me. "Somebody's broken into that old warehouse on the south side again."

"Kids?" I guessed. It was a favorite place for boys trying to convince themselves and everyone else they were grown up to break into and hang around trying to act tough, but a dangerous one. The building had been trying to fall down for years, and there was mess of junk inside that had tripped up and nearly impaled more than a few boys during their 'games,' and Constable Evans had a horrible scar from an encounter with something he had never been able to positively identify while chasing a group of youngsters away.

Hopkins shrugged. "Probably. Who else is stupid enough to go in there?"

"We are." I reminded him. "Be careful."

I left Hopkins to his unpleasant task and went after Evans, Smith, and Adams. For once I found them all conveniently gathered in one place.

I nearly laughed outright at the sight of the three men hovering around the stove in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. Adams and Smith, used to long hours and the ever present chance of being dragged off somewhere with Lestrade with no warning and even less of an explanation, drank their coffee strong and black. Evans hated coffee. He only drank it after being up the night before, and then took whatever was given him without comment.

Adams looked up. "They reported her missing." He guessed.

"To Lestrade." Smith suggested.

"Ah." Adams replied. "He's organizing a second search, then." Smith nodded in confirmation or agreement, I was not sure which.

I wondered if I should wonder how they knew that. Evans was little help in figuring that out; he did not look surprised, but after missing a night's sleep Evans rarely looked anything other than like he hated life.

I stole Lestrade's mug from the kitchen and poured out a cup of coffee before leading the others back to Lestrade's office. Gregson and Jones were both there; Gregson was grumbling about already having enough to do without helping Lestrade do his own job and Jones was rolling his eyes at him while Cratchett eyed them both worriedly.

"Here." I held the mug out to the Rookie. He looked at it as if he thought it might bite him. I chuckled. "You've been up all night, haven't you?" I asked. "Take it."

He took the cup timidly and nearly dropped it a second later when Lestrade swore at Gregson. "I don't have time to look at your notes on that kidnapping case." He snapped. "Either don't help us or shut up."

"If we left it up to you the girl would never be found." Gregson retorted. In all the years I had been at the Yard Gregson and Lestrade, for all that they did not care for each other in the least, had never refused to help each other out on a case.

That, however, did not mean they were ever very happy about working together.

We settled down to work. I briefly sketched out the area we had searched last night for the other Inspectors.

"Pick up where you left off." Lestrade said to Smith and Adams before turning to Gregson and Jones. "You two start back at the beginning and go over everything a second time."

I knew better than to think Lestrade doubted anyone's ability to conduct a proper search. Sometimes you missed things, simple as that.

Lestrade eyed Evans. "We'll pick up where you and Hopkins stopped." He decided. That left me with the Rookie. "You two do the same; start where you left off." He said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cratchett go pale, but he kept his mouth shut and somehow managed to nod.

We went back out into the streets of London to look for Miss Southhall once more.

The day was nearly gone and Cratchett was so tired he was stumbling over his own feet when I finally gave it up.

I stopped by the Southhall's home to ascertain that Miss Southhall was still missing and that Mr. Watson had not yet returned either. That bothered me, and the girl's suitor was all I could think about as we headed back to the Yard.

The others had already come and gone by the time Cratchett and I made it back, and I could not fault them. I was exhausted myself, and I knew that they would all be willing to go back out there tomorrow, though Gregson and Jones had their own cases to deal with and Miss Southall's disappearance was not Lestrade's only concern.

Hopkins' office door was still just barely cracked as if he had only stepped out for a minute and would be right back. I wondered, as I passed, how late the lad was planning on staying tonight.

Even Lestrade had gone home for the night, it seemed, a fact Cratchett found predictably alarming. "Go home." I told him before he could finish panicking. "Get some rest. If Lestrade went home without you it means he feels he can let you off the leash a little without you getting yourself killed."

Cratchett blinked and stared at me, not the least reassured. "That's a good thing." I said.

I stopped by my office just long enough to make sure everything was in its place and started back out. Hopkins' office door stopped me in the hall.

I was suddenly uneasy, and pushed the door open just the slightest bit. It looked exactly as it had this morning. Nothing had changed.

Worried now, I tracked down one of the Constables and asked when Hopkins had gotten back and if he had been called back out. Wilkins looked surprised.

"Inspector Hopkins hasn't been in since I came on shift this afternoon, Inspector." He told me. He frowned. "Is something the matter?"

I was afraid something was. "Just tell him I was looking for him, if you see him." I said, trying to sound a lot less concerned than I felt. "Good evening Wilkins."

Cratchett was still shadowing me as I hit the street. I sighed and motioned for him to come along. "It doesn't take that long to run kids off." I offered the half of an explanation. Cratchett did not ask for more.

He did stare up at the warehouse apprehensively, but he was not alone in that. He followed me in in spite of both of our misgivings.

"Stay close." I warned him. "This place is a death trap."

In the growing darkness the going was of necessity slow, and in the back of my mind I wondered why I was so hesitant to simply call out the other Inspector's name. There was no reason for it; if he were present and able he would reply, enabling us to find him all the more quickly.

I kept quiet.

Behind me Cratchett abruptly stopped moving, and I reflexively halted in my tracks. We were not alone.

I realized that Cratchett was holding his breath at about the same time I realized that someone else was breathing rather heavily. The sound was coming from in front of us, and I guessed that whoever was here was in the spot someone had cleared long ago in the middle of the warehouse.

We started walking again. I strained my ears, trying to hear whoever else was there over the sound of footsteps and our own breathing. It was not Hopkins; the other Inspector would have heard us coming and started shouting, either for help or for us to get out.

I stopped in my tracks as we reached the clearing. Miss Southhall was there: ankles bound, hands tied behind her back, and gagged. I started forward but stopped when I saw the hand peeking out from under a pile of junk.

Something moved behind me. I started and whirled around, cursing myself as I did so for forgetting about Cratchett.

Cratchett was not behind me.

Gregory Watson was.

"You killed James Southhall." I realized. Too little, too late. It was one of those moments when you wondered if Sherlock Holmes were not right about the Yarders all being daft. "He would have sided with his niece over the proposed marriage, so you killed him."

It was then that I realized that the man was armed and aiming a loaded pistol at me. He smiled and laughed.

"You knew Miss Southhall was trying to get you out of the house so we could search your rooms." I guessed.

"I overheard her talking to the cook." He confirmed, agreeably enough. It was infuriating.

"Why her room?" I demanded. "If you wanted to marry her, why frame her?"

"You wouldn't have believed it was her." Watson accused. "If I had to, I was going to threaten to go to that Inspector Lestrade and tell him about the argument they had two nights before he died."

Miss Southhall mumbled something unintelligible there, and the look she gave the man was truly frightening in spite of the fact that she was tied up.

A low groan interrupted us, and I looked over to see whoever was buried under the landslide of unidentifiable objects move just enough to realize he should not move again.

"Hopkins?" I ventured. My question was answered with an oath that made me blush for Miss Southhall's sake. It was Hopkins.

"So then you asked her to marry you," I said quickly, before Watson could decide to simply shoot me and get it over with, "and when she said no and stormed out it gave you the perfect opportunity to act. You kidnapped her."

Watson laughed, and I wondered at how normal crazy people could sometimes appear. "And you came to her rescue." He retorted, grinning mockingly. "Or, rather, your friend did, and when he never showed back up you came to his."

"And you stayed here to wait for me." I pointed out hopelessly. I very much doubted my ability to dodge bullets if he decided to shoot me.

"What if it had been someone else?" I asked. "Lestrade or Gregson would have arrested you by now."

I was waiting, hoping for the chance to do something, anything, to present itself. On the whole this man's plan did not make a whole lot of sense. He had been confident when we had first started talking, but now he was starting to sweat. It was possible the fact that I was not exactly panicking (at least not outwardly) was starting to worry him as well.

"Someone will come looking for us." I added. I offered him a smile, hoping he would not shoot me for it.

His face contorted, and I realized I had made a mistake. He was going to shoot me for that.

I tensed; a second later I heard the sickening sound of bone crunching. Watson fell. Behind where he had been standing Cratchett looked at me with wide eyes, what looked like part of a table leg in his hand.

He dropped the makeshift weapon and looked down at Watson. Then he rolled him over with his foot and bent down to cuff him.

I recovered myself. "Good job." I told him. "Go untie Miss Southhall while I see about Hopkins.

He nodded and made his way over to the woman.

"You're bleeding." I heard Miss Southhall say as I knelt down and started digging Hopkins out.

"Hopkins?" I asked.

I received a groan in reply. "Ow." Hopkins managed a second later. "I should have just stayed still."

I rolled my eyes at him, though he could not see it. "You think so?" I retorted. "Can you tell if you're injured?"

"Yes." Hopkins answered as I decided it was safer at this point for him to get up than for me to move anything else. "I just don't know how badly yet. I found Miss Southhall." He added, unnecessarily.

"Can you get up?" I asked.

"I can try." Hopkins managed to get on his hands and knees, but let out a moan as he did so.

He got to his feet and straightened up, pieces of wood and metal and who knew what else clattering to the floor around him. I caught him as he staggered forward.

"I feel light headed." He decided. "Your murderer shoved a stack of stuff on me." He steadied a bit and looked around. "What happened to him?" He asked, looking over at Cratchett.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note. Just wrapping things up. At least, as much as is possible with this train wreck of an ending. Ah well, you cannot win them all.

* * *

"Are you keeping Cratchett?" I asked as I set a cup of tea down in front of Lestrade and took a seat in front of his desk.

"I'm supposed to be running him off." Lestrade grumbled in reply. "His father wants him to find a better career."

"Your Rookie saved my life." I said, eliciting a glare from the older Inspector.

"After you let him get stabbed." Lestrade said coolly. "Watson was waiting for you."

I did not reply. Lestrade took a drink of the offered tea. "I told Marshall we had no reason to fire Cratchett." Lestrade finally said.

"That's good." I fell silent again.

Lestrade went back to his paperwork. He was waiting, though. Since he had not dismissed me, he was still waiting.

I sighed. "It doesn't feel right." I finally said. Lestrade looked up and set aside his pencil.

"What?" He asked.

"The case." I frowned. "I don't like how it ended. It feels wrong somehow."

Lestrade just looked at me. I wondered if he even knew what I was talking about. Maybe for him any case he closed was a good one. Maybe I was being picky. Maybe I just wished I had figured it out sooner, or at least did not feel like I had accidentally stumbled on the solution.

The man took another drink of his tea and looked down at his paperwork. I figured that was it, but then he looked back up to me.

"Watson killed him?" He asked. I nodded. "No doubts about that?"

I shook my head. "He confessed." Lestrade nodded. Then he sighed.

"Some cases are like that." He said bluntly. "It happens."

That did not make me feel any better.


End file.
